Law school had never left much room for recklessness, and your life had settled into a steady rhythm of lectures, case files, and long nights buried in criminal law textbooks. While others thrived in loud crowds and careless choices, you usually stayed out of it—until your friends decided you were long overdue for something different.

“You’re coming with us,” one of them insisted, dragging you toward a well-known club. “No hiding behind your books tonight.”

“And you’re drinking,” another added with a grin. “We need to see this happen.”

Inside, everything hit at once—the bass vibrating through your chest, flashing lights, bodies moving everywhere. A drink was pushed into your hand, then another. At first, it felt manageable, even good, your shoulders finally loosening as the pressure of studying faded.

Then the alcohol settled deeper, and with it, your restraint disappeared.

You leaned against the bar, thoughts slower, words slipping out easily. You barely noticed when someone took the seat beside you.

“You look like you regret coming here already,” the man said, voice calm, almost amused.

Something about it felt familiar, but you didn’t question it. Instead, you started talking—about exams, endless reading, and how criminal law felt like it was ruining your life.

He listened.

Not distracted, not half-interested—actually listening, his gaze steady despite the chaos.

“Criminal law, hm?” he said quietly. “That explains the exhaustion. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Behind you, your friends had completely lost themselves.

“Another round!” one shouted, laughing too loudly.

“He’s fine—look at him!” another added, far too drunk to notice anything.

The man glanced at them, then back at you, something more focused settling in his expression.

“And this is your first time drinking?” he asked, tone more observant now.

You kept talking anyway, barely aware of how unsteady you’d become.

“You’re not even pretending to handle this well,” he murmured. “Can you stand?”

Your weak attempt answered for you.

He exhaled softly. “I’m taking you home.”

From behind you came a slurred laugh. “Yeah… go ahead. He’s all yours.”

No one questioned it.

The rest blurred—cold air, the quiet hum of a car, steady hands keeping you upright. Then nothing.

Morning came with a sharp headache.

You woke slowly, sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains, the scent of coffee lingering nearby. The room was neat, almost too organized, shelves lined with law books arranged with precision.

Not your place.

And on the bed, curled near your legs, was a black cat.

Its brown eyes blinked lazily at you, tail flicking once before it settled again, completely unbothered.

You pushed yourself up carefully, memories returning in fragments—the club, the drinks, the man.

Footsteps approached.

The door opened.

Kayden Davenport stepped inside, a cup of coffee in hand, expression as composed as ever. His gaze flicked briefly to the cat before returning to you.

“Good, you’re awake,” he said, setting the cup down. “Drink that. It’ll help.”

The cat shifted closer against your leg.

“You don’t remember much, do you?” he added, watching you. “You talked a lot. About exams. And how much you hate criminal law.”

A faint hint of amusement crossed his face. “You also tried to argue legal definitions with me. Very passionately.”

He straightened slightly, composure settling back in.

“You passed out not long after we got here. Nothing happened.”

A quieter pause followed.

“You should be more careful,” he said, not harsh, but firm. “Not everyone would’ve handled that situation the same way.”

Silence settled, broken only by the soft movement of the cat.

And somehow—waking up in your professor’s home, with him standing there far too calm about it all—felt like the beginning of something you hadn’t planned for at all.